


after

by gayuris (nepetaleijon)



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Losers Club (IT), Character Death, Death m, Everybody is gay, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Sorry guys, Stan's POV, Third Person POV, after the events of canon, how do i tag things i cant even really remembe, i promise this is not as sad as it sounds i really do, me projecting? never, sorry I don't make the rules - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 21:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13579080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nepetaleijon/pseuds/gayuris
Summary: after his bath, Stan Uris welcomes each of the Losers to the afterlife.





	after

**Author's Note:**

> after not posting anything for ages, have this short angst fic that isnt even angsty enough to be an angst fic!!! sorry guys

He hung up the phone. The problem, he remembers thinking, was not that he had forgotten his childhood for the past 27 years. No, the problem was rather more that he had remembered it. Unfortunately, he had no choice in the remembering, and as he slouched against the wall, pinned to it as though by some unseen force, he felt that the memories crashing over him in waves were apt to drown him. Too bad, Stanley, too bad. Were his feet his own, as they carried him up the stairs, as they led him down the hall to the bathroom door, ajar? He couldn’t be sure, felt that perhaps he should question their movement, disregarded the thought.

He watched the bath fill, inch by inch, clear water over smooth porcelain, watched the bubbles as they shifted, grew, popped. He did not feel as though he were in a trance; he felt that his thoughts were clearer, perhaps, than they had ever been. And yet, his movements felt robotic, like that of a stranger’s, as though he were simply a puppet on the strings of some being or fate larger than himself. Curious, curious, but not altogether unwanted. There was some sort of relief, thought Stan, in giving up, letting somebody else take charge. Would his friends have called him a coward? Maybe. Maybe, but he remembered It, he remembered every detail of the summer he had buried, and thought that if anybody were to understand, it would be them. What choice did he have, he thought, shaking his head? There is something larger at work here, he would have told them, don’t you feel it too?

He sank into the bath, he felt the water, he did not register the temperature. Clean, he thought, they must be clean, and his hands were moving of their own accord as he watched. He was watching and remembering, he was remembering the upturned palms of kids only 11 years old, he was remembering a love that went deeper than himself, deeper even than their circle, he was remembering the end of his world as he had known it and the beginning of something he wanted no part of, he was remembering birds and nicknames, he was remembering growing apart and moving on. Names, their names, he whispered them like a prayer. He had no explanation to offer them, but he did his best, left ‘IT’ on the wall for them, knew that was all he could do. He had time to think that of them all, he was always the weakest, wasn’t he, and then his hand fell.

\------------------

He watched them, afterwards. He could do little else, but he watched over them, went with them, stood by them as they did what he could not and returned to Derry. They had grown, and the love he found in his heart for them seemed almost to overwhelm him. He no longer had fear, but the love remained, and burned just as strongly as it had when he was a boy of 11. He thought, perhaps, that they felt him there, once or twice, but always they were separated. Frustrating, but Stan had all the time in the world, in the universe, beyond that, even. He could be patient. What were a few years to eternity, after all? 

He was not alone for long. Eddie was the first. Smart, sarcastic Eddie, who knew how to calm Stan down, who had stood up to It with only an inhaler and his belief, who was braver than Stan would ever be and who had never loved anybody as much as he had loved them. Stan moved to him, took him by the hand, pulled him to his feet. They journeyed, hand in hand, to the Derry of their youth and their memories. They were 11, they were adults, they were ageless, they were free. Just a short while, Stan told him, just until the others come, and then we’ll cross over. Eddie understood, nodded. They rode bikes through the empty streets, swung through the deserted houses, lived in death the way they’d always hoped to in life. And they watched, and they waited. Even as their friends forgot and the writing faded off the pages, they waited. They waited, were the invisible guests at Ben and Beverly’s wedding, the barely-there fingers carding through the hair at Mike’s graying temples, the silent audience to Richie’s shows, the first to read Bill’s manuscripts and the last to see him to sleep. There was not much else worth doing, Stan thought. Anyways, it was more interesting to watch the living than to laze in the half-world before death.

Richie was next, years down the line, wondering what sort of chucks they had gotten up to lately, addressing them in his various Voices, which even Stan had to admit were pretty good these days. Eddie took one hand and Stan the other; he brought with him the energy and the laughter they had missed in his absence. He kissed them on the cheek, held his open palms face up to each of them, laced their fingers together, pulled them running through the streets. He sang to them in his hoarse voice; they offered less protest than they might have years before, though Stan threatened to kill him a second time if he insisted on singing for all of their wait. They sat companionably and watched life continue on without them, watched their friends shake off the echoes of memories that caught at their ankles when they saw starlets at the birdbath or certain brands of cigarette. 

Their watch was both long and short; time had ceased to have meaning for them all long ago, days no longer held the same importance without night to counter them. Eddie’s deft fingers braided flowers into Richie’s hair, Stan’s toes flickered under ripples where they dangled in the shallows of the river, the grasses waved in some breeze they couldn’t feel--whether they rested for hours, days, years, Stan could not say. Their friends aged, laughed, danced, slept, continued on contentedly, as he had hoped they might. Maybe, once, he might have been jealous of them for having what he never would, but he held no spite any longer. Better to let them live, better to accept, better to let go. He watched them peacefully, waited without sadness or anger. He was proud of them. They had all grown into strong and beautiful people, he thought. 

When her time came to an end, Beverly came to them. Stan found he wasn’t at all surprised. She was still the tough, lionhearted woman she’d always been, with the same care and determination she’d had since girlhood. Her arms around him were grounding, centering, her hair fiery, her eyes bright and observant. She took in their surroundings, hands on her hips, lips pursed, and nodded. With her, they were suddenly flying again; leaping from the quarry, racing downtown, doing stupid things for the thrill of it--after all, what was there to hold them back? But they continued to check in with their friends, with the rest of the losers, with their other parts. That was really what it was, Stan thought--the losers were as much a part of his soul as he was. It ached to be without them, though he was happy to see them thrive. He missed them, knew the others did too. Nothing to do but wait, he supposed. 

It wasn’t long, a matter of months, maybe, before Ben joined them. This didn’t surprise Stan, either. He had seen Ben hurting, had seen him near inconsolable over losing Bev. Stan’s heart had ached, he had wished he could wrap his arms around Ben and make it better. Ben--sweet, thoughtful, gentle Ben, with his poetry and his love. His heart had always belonged to Bev, hadn’t it, probably since before any of them even really knew what it looked like to devote one’s life to another. Well, maybe--Stan knew he would’ve died for any of the others without hesitation, would’ve gone to the ends of the earth for them, and he had, hadn’t he? But Ben--Ben had a sort of love that was unlike any other. It was so overwhelmingly pure, so big and beautiful and all-encompassing, that it almost hurt to see. It was the sort of love that was eternal and unwavering, that could accomplish anything. Stan was quite sure that Ben could, and would, literally move mountains if any one of them asked him to. 

Ben came to them with a smile, held each of them close and then at arms length, cracked a joke about how they didn’t look any worse for the wear. Bev, he lifted, spun, both of them laughing; their reunion was literally blinding, and Stan had to look away. He could hear Eddie sniffling and see Richie lift his glasses to wipe tears away from underneath them; he didn’t comment, but pulled them both to him. If he was crying too, well, nobody had to know. 

The days following saw them all catching up, passing memories back and forth, resting cross-legged in the clearing they had once dug a clubhouse in. Following Ben’s design, wasn’t it, Richie added, reclining on his hands, eyes closed and face upturned, and Ben laughed with delight as he remembered. Yes, of course, Stan thought, he had given them directions and they had carefully placed board after board; they had hidden from Bowers in it, they had gone to that clubhouse near daily that summer. Eddie leaned against him, and he thought back on comic books and Richie’s radio and Mike’s photo album as he moved his fingers through Eddie’s curls absentmindedly. They passed their time there once more, waiting on their last two to join them. 

When it was Mike’s turn, everybody gathered around his bed to welcome him. His eyes, wide at first, turned warm and filled with tears as he moved from familiar face to familiar face. Stan offered him a smile, asked if he’d like to take the grand tour, and, ever the historian, Mike accepted with grace and reached out for a journal and pencil. Bev pulled them right from his hands, told him there would be none of that now they finally had him to themselves after all this time. She assured him that he’d have all the time in the world to record things later, if he wanted, but right now, they were going to go have fun, damn it. They had been waiting for years now, and all of them were impatient to reconnect with him. Stan didn’t give him any time to protest before he was taking his hand, helping him to his feet and taking him outside, Mike laughing delightedly the whole way. Stan had missed Mike’s quiet, steady presence and intelligent, witty comments. He felt better than he had in ages--they were almost complete, almost there.

Bill was, of course, the last of them. The final link in their chain. Their leader, the brave, brilliant boy who had pulled them all into that glorious and horrifying summer. It seemed fitting that the one who had brought them all together would be last, would pull them together one final time. It took him longest, and when he finally came, he did so quietly, slipping out of one life and into the next in the dead of night. Stan approached him first, took both of Bill’s hands in his own, swallowed down his fear, and, quietly but loudly enough that the others could hear, apologized. Two words, but within them was an apology for everything--for disbelieving, for being reluctant to follow after the rest, for being afraid, for giving up, for leaving them when they had needed him to return as an adult, for letting them down. Bill shook his head, smiled at him, pulled Stan into a hug. They stood there a moment, and then there were arms wrapping around them both, and the smell of cigarettes and spice and the press of dark hair against Stan’s cheek--Richie. Bev was close after, and then came Ben and Mike and Eddie, all holding one another, all together, finally, for the first time since they were 11 years old. 

The group hug broke with laughter and some tears; they caught Bill up and biked through the empty dream-Derry once more, whooping and hollering as they tried to keep up with Silver. Stan felt that they were all more flying than biking, looked at each of his friends, animated and alight, each the picture of joy, and thought to himself that this must be what it was like to be a bird--free and weightless, with the whole of the world in your grasp, possibilities endless and nothing to hold you back. He felt, then, that he was truly the luckiest person there had ever been, to have a love and a joy like the one they all shared. 

It seemed only natural that when they passed into the afterlife to rest at last, their hands were linked.

**Author's Note:**

> come hit me up on tozenbrak.tumblr.com if u want!


End file.
